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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995254">Prisoner of His Design</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibasniper/pseuds/kibasniper'>kibasniper</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Psychonauts (Video Games)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Cruelty, Gen, Mental Anguish, Mocking, Pre-Canon, Sad Ending, Solitary Confinement, Trapped</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 03:41:41</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>3,084</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24995254</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/kibasniper/pseuds/kibasniper</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Edgar wakes up to another unfinished portrait, but that isn't anything new. The lock around his boot, however, forces him to experience terror beyond anything the wrestling team provided.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>17</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Prisoner of His Design</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i've never written anything with edgar before, and i wrote in a discord how i wanted to explore this idea, so here it is! loboto is portrayed with his first game self in mind, so he doesn't have any sense of regret yet. he's very much enjoying how he is going to torment edgar for the sake of his research and "caretaking of his patient."</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Edgar peeled his eyelids apart. A low, guttural groan croaked out from the back of his throat. His back ached, a dull pain forming closer to his hips that matched the pulsing behind his eyes. He rolled his shoulders back and sat up, slowly blinking as his room formed around him, the haze of sleep beginning to leave him.</p><p>His chair creaked under him. Clasped in his right hand was a paintbrush, but it slipped from his grasp and clattered to the floor. He inspected his palm, noting a swath of violet paint flaking between his fingers. Checking the table, he found his palette and canvas balancing on the edge, the canvas wobbling when his knee jerked involuntarily at the sight and bumped into the table leg. He snatched the canvas and nudged his palette closer to the plastic cup of water, his thumb dipping into a still wet glob of scarlet paint.</p><p>Sighing, Edgar glared at his unfinished artwork. The basic outline of the doctor was present. The linework was sketchy, remnants of eraser residue and pencil shadings still present. A wide smile dyed in black with uneven teeth, an upturned, long nose, and those strange metal devices where his eyes should have been, they were the basic trademarks of the doctor’s face that Edgar had managed to draw.</p><p>But instead of lush colors, much to his dread as he held his face in his hand, there was the bullfight. The matador raised his epee, scarlet cape swaying in his other hand, and he stood where the doctor’s shoulder should have been. The bull hunched down on the doctor’s neck, one hoof aiming for the matador’s knee while its horns gouged through the doctor’s cheek and nose. Swathes of color were applied, but judging by the long dark pink line cutting through the matador’s chest and the bull’s back, Edgar realized what had happened.</p><p>Exhaustion had taken him. Having used blazing, manic strokes to draw the bullfight, his body had given up, and he had collapsed right on his desk. He supposed that running on only a few hours of deep slumber had finally caught up with him, the throbbing in his eyes reminders of his poor sleeping schedule.</p><p>He thought the fifth try would have been enough. He remembered how intently he had sketched the doctor’s features, but in a split second, the world became a dark canvas, and the bull charged at him just as his head met the splintery wood of his desk. He knew the painting was ruined, the presence of the bullfight signifying that he would certainly have to start again, for the doctor refused to sign his release papers if he could not paint a simple portrait without the bull storming through on his canvas.</p><p>Edgar huffed out a sigh. He tossed the canvas back on the table and screwed his eyes shut. He visualized the doctor, but the matador skewered through it, blade cleaving through the bull’s backside. His hand twitched, fingers pinching together as if he was grasping a paintbrush to make the first stroke. </p><p>Groaning, Edgar glared at the paint on his hand and decided to wash up. He could not work without feeling refreshed. His very first clinician had told him that his physical health was as important as his mental health. She had urged him to shower and eat before he started painting for the day, something he had been neglecting recently as his new doctor demanded progress above all else.</p><p>“Well, lucky number six, is it?” he mumbled and shook his head.</p><p>Clink.</p><p>The noise caught Edgar off guard as he shifted in his seat. He moved to stand up, but something pressed down on his boot. It wasn’t too heavy, but it was certainly weighted enough to cause discomfort when he rolled his ankle. Shoving the table away, Edgar peered at his leg and screamed so suddenly that his throat burned.</p><p>Fastened tightly around his ankle was a thick lock. Attached to it was a chain that extended into the wall. He could not make out its end. It seemed to simply vanish into the wall, but upon closer inspection, he realized it was coming through a crevice in the corner of the room. Edgar knelt and snatched the chain, panic creasing his expression into a scowl. Grunting, he clutched it as tightly as he could, but the paint on his fingers made his grip loosen, and he lost his balance, his body crashing onto unfinished canvases and empty cans of paint.</p><p>“Help!” he shouted, quickly rolling upright. He grabbed the chain again and pulled, but it remained steadfast. His knuckles ached, and his teeth grinded together, threatening to crack. Edgar craned his neck to the side as he heaved with all his might, but the chain refused to budge. “Mr. Orderly! Mr. Orderly, are you out there? I need help!” he cried to crows who flew past without a glance his way. Growling, he tried prying it apart again, but it only worsened the pain in his hands and forced him to release, the chain banging on to the ground.</p><p>Sweat beaded his brow and trickled down his cheeks. He gripped his head, not caring that he smeared paint through his graying tresses. Another shriek for help left him, answered only by the former orderly’s accented cries about how victory was in sight.</p><p>“Doctor! Dr. Loboto!” he shouted at the top of his lungs, cheeks turning as red as the matador’s cape. “Are you out there? Please, I need help! Something has happened! Something has-!”</p><p>“Oh, is that you, Mr. Teglee?”</p><p>He gasped, recognizing the voice of the new orderly calling up to him. “Mr. Whytehead! Yes, it’s me! My ankle! My ankle is tied to a-to a chain!”</p><p>Silence followed his explanation. He could have sworn he heard him whisper. Swallowing, he sucked in a breath to shout back, but the orderly cackled in a way that made his skin crawl.</p><p>“Not to worry. The good doctor says it’s part of your treatment. It’ll help you focus if you stay in there, eh?”</p><p>His heart sank into his stomach, His eyes widened, feeling like one of his high school teammates punched him in the gut. Running his fingers along the smattering of rust around the lock, he barked, “That-that cannot possibly help! How can I concentrate-? No, no, nevermind that!” He slammed the side of his fist into the ground. “Go get the doctor, and tell him to bring the key! I can’t work trapped like some animal in a ca-!”</p><p>“Zut alors! Ze enemy nearly breaches ze stronghold, but my knight strikes faster! Ha ha ha! Again, victory is mine!”</p><p>“Oh, goodie goodie! You win again! Just leave me alone already! Go back to your island or wherever you died!”</p><p>“Not until I have beaten ze thrill of victory into you, my apathetic descendent! Now, we will play again! I will even grant you ze mercy of ze first move! Now, ze battlefield awaits us!”</p><p>Edgar grimaced as the former orderly’s argument breached through his command. He stared through his doorway to the crumbling walls of the other side of the asylum. Broken mattresses and spare chairs were left to rot. Crows fluttered freely, some of them carrying empty jars filled with a luminescent liquid, and they cawed at him as they passed, mocking him just like his classmates did in every class.</p><p>Crispin seemed to turn his attention to Fred, snapping at him to shut up or he’d be put back in solitary like his friend upstairs. Fred squawked back, but he was beaten down by Crispin’s reprimands. The voice of Fred’s ancestor broke through again and demanded he make the first move, followed by sharp clattering sounds and Crispin’s laughter, which reminded Edgar of a hinge needing to be oiled.</p><p>Edgar shuddered. The implication was painfully clear. He clutched the chain again and wrenched it back, digging in his heels and straining the bones in his legs. Veins pressed into his skin, the force too much for his body to contain. Blood pumped and overheated him, as if he was boiling from the inside out. He wailed as his fingers twitched and released the chain, letting it fall to the tiled floor and gasping, his muscles and bones stiff.</p><p>Sitting back down, Edgar’s frustrations fueled him. He already knew he could not trust the ones who commandeered the asylum ever since it shut down. He knew that, but he still let his guard down. It was like he was back in high school when his former friends would corner him to be their punching bag all because he had lost the championship match. Teachers and students had looked away when they rained blows upon his head, breaking his nose, chipping his teeth, and bloodying his lips all while they snarled at him for their lost scholarships.</p><p>But just like back then, he had no opportunity to leave. No one came for him. Not his mother, not his father, not a single classmate returned for Edgar when the asylum closed. Without any hope, Edgar had remained and clung to the hope that perhaps he could have found some security in Thorney Towers, but that light was snuffed out as soon as he realized who had become the head doctor.</p><p>A long shadow formed in the doorway, and he flinched. He drew his arms up, his shoulders hitching closer to his ears. But Edgar relaxed immediately upon seeing the skinnier man leering down at him, understanding that at least he would hear his reasoning for what he had done to him.</p><p>“Mr. Teglee!” Dr. Loboto snapped, hand and claw on his hips. A clipboard was tucked underneath his arm. “What are you doing on the floor? You haven’t finished your art therapy that I assigned to you…” He checked his clipboard and puffed out a chuckle. “...four months ago!” Slapping his clipboard to his knee, he asked, “What is such a pressing issue that Mr. Whytehead had to call me all the way down here while I was in the middle of my very important research? It’s rude to demand attention, you know. I already have to deal with that enough with the washed up starlet downstairs.”</p><p>Edgar threw his hand out at the chain, blurting, “Are those contraptions in your sockets screwed in right? Look! Did you put this on me while I slept?”</p><p>Loboto hummed and followed the long chain to the wall. His finger traced it back and forth in midair before stopping on the lock around Edgar’s boot. He sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose, shaking his head like a teacher disappointed with his student as Edgar stumbled to stand, shaking the chain.</p><p>“Edgar, Edgar, Edgar, you misunderstand me,” Loboto said, smiling, one lip curling higher into his cheek.</p><p>“What is there to misunderstand about this? What doctor does this to a patient? I can tell you with absolute certainty that none of my previous doctors and nurses did anything this drastic,” Edgar boomed, rattling the chain, its clattering like clashing tops of paint cans being tossed around him.</p><p>“Well, after going through your files today, I realized this was very necessary for your treatment,” he insisted, flipping through his clipboard. He mumbled to himself as he read his notes before uttering a satisfied hum. Smacking his finger next to a bullet point, he announced, “Here we are! According to your third clinician, one Dr. Maximillion Ufford, he wrote, ‘While Mr. Teglee clearly suffers from a form of OCD, it is in my observation that he is also developing-’” Loboto suddenly pressed the clipboard to his chest and gasped. “‘Well, I can’t say! In my opinion, it’s detrimental to the client, and I have no obligation to inform you of my discovery for the sake of your mental health.”</p><p>The laughter which followed only made Edgar fume. He was being tormented, assaulted with words more scathing than the Indian burns Tiger had given him behind the gymnasium. He clenched his fists, snorting, “You can’t or you won’t?”</p><p>“Such bullish behavior will not be tolerated,” Loboto sharply retorted, drumming the pincers of his claw against the clipboard. “And I hate repeating myself! It will only worsen your condition if I tell you. Why, you should be thanking me!” He launched the clipboard over his shoulder, the papers flapping in the wind before plummeting to the ground. “I’m taking a preventative, protective, proactive procedure! That way, you’ll be able to focus on the lesson that I assigned to you, which you still haven’t completed. If anything-” Loboto sauntered closer, towering over the wider man with his grin seemingly etched on his face. “-this will force you to concentrate.”</p><p>“How can-how can I work in this condition? You chained me to a wall!” Edgar sputtered, throwing his arms out. He slammed his other fist into the table, a growl rising in his throat. “This is not treatment. This is-”</p><p>“And who are you to say what counts as treatment? You’re just the patient while I’m the head and only doctor,” Loboto countered, bending forward and snatching the unfinished portrait. Holding it in front of his chest like a shield, he said, “You have been drawing nothing but bullfights. In fact, your previous doctors have reported the same. In our combined and professional beliefs-” He flung the canvas across the room, and it joined the other portraits of bulls, matadors, and crying women cradling roses, sending a few scattering into empty paint cans and broken brushes. “-your temper flares despite your concentration! You refused to get better, so I was forced to take measures that you deem drastic when in fact, compared to my former clients…” Loboto dug his pincer into Edgar’s chin, a pinprick of blood pooling beneath his beard, and he lowered his voice to a cat’s hiss. “...I’m treating you quite tamely, wouldn’t you agree, Mr. Teglee?”</p><p>A lump formed in Edgar’s throat. He had heard horror stories from other inmates when the asylum was in its prime. Loboto’s cruelty had breached the ears of doctors and patients alike. Some cases seemed childish like when he forced a woman strapped to a table to watch his interpretive dancing. Others were not as fortunate with their teeth rearranged, gums bloodied, tongues sliced, and brains removed with bits of their skull trapped in the pink wrinkles.</p><p>Fear crept up his spine. The pain in his hips returned, and he stumbled back in his seat. Gripping his cheek, Edgar jostled his leg, and the chain trembled, hints of rust drifting into the cracked tiles.</p><p>Considering the doctor’s whims, he was far from protected. If anything, as his mind raced with possibilities of further treatment, it left him vulnerable. He could not reason with Loboto nor could he break the lock. With his thoughts scrambling and the doctor grinning down at him, Edgar swallowed, his gulp audible enough for Loboto to chortle at him.</p><p>His voice trembled as he crooned, “How is this helping me? How can you say this is supposed to help me? Please, I can-please, I can do this. Just give me-”</p><p>“Give you what? More time to draw the same girl and the same bull and the same matador again and again and again?” Loboto jeered and clicked his tongue. He tapped Edgar’s forehead with a gloved, rubbery finger and wiped away sweat. Snapping his back, he arched forward at a painfully straight angle and snatched Edgar’s palette. He slammed it into Edgar’s chest, smearing his pajamas with flaky and wet hues of purple and green. His smile stretched into his cheeks, pushing them closer to the contraptions in his sockets, and as Edgar shuddered, clutching his palette with quivering hands, Loboto murmured, “With a brain like yours, Edgar, if you won’t get better, then the next option is surgery.”</p><p>“Surgery?” Edgar whispered, sounding as if he was saying the word for the first time.</p><p>Loboto tapped his claw, the metal ringing in Edgar’s ears. “I’ll be gentle, and you won’t feel a thing, but-” He pivoted on his heels and skipped to the door. “-I’m preoccupied with patients who will be arriving in a matter of days! So, with all that said…” Loboto twisted around like a venomous snake, grinning and glaring over his shoulder, his bones popping as he stared right into Edgar’s eyes and sized him up. “...you’d best work harder if you want to keep that chaotic cranium untouched.”</p><p>Laughter flung free from his lips as he scampered away. His heels clacked on the crumbling floor, echoing over the former orderly’s crying. Edgar covered his mouth and clutched his forehead as soon as he was safe. He hunched into his desk and curled into a ball, his elbows quaking and nearly slipping. His heart thundered, threatening to burst out of his chest and matching the rhythm of his panting, all while his lungs refused to expand as reality strangled him.</p><p>The paint odor wafting up from his palette dizzied him and dragged him out of stupor. He thrust it to the floor, roaring at the top of his lungs. If his wailing had any real power behind it, then he could have shaken the entire foundation of the rotting asylum, sending it crashing into Lake Oblongata.</p><p>But he had no such strength. He was simply a prisoner of art, a prisoner of a mad doctor who refused to release him.</p><p>Edgar whimpered and tucked his head into his hands. His shoulders shook, and his massive frame quaked. All he could do was paint what the doctor ordered, but he knew what his hands would create as the matadors behind black velvet eyes watched him.</p><p>(As he returned to his laboratory, Loboto retrieved Edgar’s file from Crispin. While the elevator clanked, thrummed, and ascended, he read, “While Mr. Teglee clearly suffers from a form of OCD, it is in my observation that he is also developing innate psychic powers.’” Stepping onto the platform where the crows roosted and sending the elevator back down, he scowled at the faded photograph of Edgar pinned to the first page of his case. “Well, I can’t take any chances with that spoonbender, even if his power is so miniscule that he doesn’t even know he is one.” He smirked and stuffed the clipboard into the large pocket of his smock, mumbling, “Nip it in the bud, eh, Mother? Nip it in the bud.”)</p>
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